


It's the Aftermath

by artsyUnderstudy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sex, Dry Humping, Feels, Frantic Sex, Hurt/Comfort, I really don't know, Illustrated, M/M, Mild Angst, bottom!Dean, frickle frackle in the woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artsyUnderstudy/pseuds/artsyUnderstudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is injured.  Dean is pissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the Aftermath

Dean’s got his favorite Zeppelin shirt between his teeth when he pulls, ripping it from the hem to the center of the back.  He spits out the excess fibers and tosses the tattered heap to the ground.  All except one, long, uneven gray strip.  Then he rounds on Castiel, pins him to the rough tree at his back.  Twigs and dead leaves crack under the heel of his boots. 

Dean shoves his hands up under Castiel’s shirt, fingers caked with blood, and grime, and sweat as they force it up above his chest.  He mouths a curse that’s almost a prayer.  Dipping his head down, Dean flattens his tongue above the hard bud of Castiel’s left nipple before he bites, Castiel’s entire body shuddering in response. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel rasps in that whisky-deep, gravel-thick voice.

“You stupid asshole,” Dean mutters as he pulls away, shaking hands forcing the shirt over Castiel’s head.  The moment he finally gets the damn thing off he tosses it in a heap on top of his own discarded shirt and jacket, bile rising in his throat as he catches how much fucking blood has soaked in.  “You selfish, awful,” Dean leans in and kisses Castiel, all teeth, all fear, shoving his tongue in his mouth so he can taste his breath before it escapes.  “ _Sonofabitch_.”  Dean grates it against his parted lips. 

Castiel just hisses in pain as Dean ties off the deep, still bleeding cut along the hard muscle of his bicep, muscles twitching involuntarily as Dean’s mouth moves to his stubble-rough jaw, down the twitching line of his throat.  There’s a trail of bruises and spit left along the dirty skin.

“You know, you know what, Cas?” Dean bites against his shoulder, the taste heady and real on his tongue.  “ _Fuck_.” Dean’s hands move to Castiel’s waist, fingers almost gentle as they ghost over the taut muscle of his abdomen before he latches into the skin, thumbs dug into his hipbones. “Actually, fuck you.  Screw you is what.” Castiel presses his face against Dean’s cheek as his own arms wrap around him, one beautiful, long-fingered hand burying itself in the short hair at the back of Dean’s head.  The other hand comes to rest at the base of his spine.  Dean can fuckin’ feel him trembling.

Or maybe that’s just Dean.  Maybe those sounds are pulling up from his own throat, that rattling, aching, shudder roiling through his own limbs.  He can’t be sure.

Dean just slots them together, bare chest against heaving bare chest, pale trails of blood streaked between their stomachs.  His skin is a mess of shallow cuts and bruises, the sharp sting of copper embedded in with salt and earth.

“What the _hell_ where you thinking, huh?” Dean asks.  His voice is in tatters.

“I assume,” Castiel starts, his hold tightening.  Strong arms pull Dean in closer, trap him, Castiel rutting his hips forward.  All Dean can do is swallow a thick groan against his warm skin.  “I assume I was supposed to let it slice your head off, then?  Is that what you’re getting at?”  Castiel takes a firm hold of Dean and spins them around, shoving Dean’s back up against the tree, bark rough and digging at his oversensitive skin.  It pulls against the shallow cuts across his shoulder blades, but Dean can’t be fuckin’ bothered to care one way or the other. 

Chasing the sensation, Dean pushes his hips forward so his cock, strained, twitching, almost painful from want against the seam of his jeans, slots up against Castiel’s.  Castiel groans and takes Dean’s lower lip between his teeth, rolling his hips at the same time he clamps down, drawing blood.  Dean almost collapses.  Ragged breath comes out in desperate, shallow pants.

“Yeah, yeah and you fuckin’, you takin’ it for me that’s your grand plan?” Dean finally grits out, still pissed, still raking dull nails against Castiel’s skin.  He’s leaving angry red scratches in their wake. 

Dean wants to mark him up.  He needs to.  Cover his tanned skin with them instead of sickening gashes and drying blood.

“Just gunna throw yourself in front of every baddie out for my, _fuck_ ,” Dean gasps as Castiel latches that sinful fucking mouth of his against the column of his throat, adam’s apple bobbing beneath thick, plush lips.  He swallows, hard.  “Shit,” he breathes as Cas presses him harder against the tree, rutting up against him like if they don’t find friction, don’t chase the burn low in their guts right the fuck now neither of them will survive it.  “Fuck, Cas, don’t stop.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Castiel breathes against his neck, slowing the roll of his hips to a teasing pace.  Dean’s own movements work harder to compensate.  He doesn’t want to lose this heat, doesn’t want to know what he would find in the quiet spaces between it.  “For me to _stop_.”

“Screw you,” Dean almost shouts through clenched teeth, holding tight to Castiel’s slim hips as he ruts forward.  Sweat pools at the seams between their skin, thrumming with electricity.  “You wanna throw yourself in harm’s way do it on your own damn time cuz hell knows I ain’t havin’ it.  None of it.  I can’t…” 

Dean’s heart catches in his throat as Castiel stops moving against him altogether, slumping, one hand slack at the base of his spine.  His other hand is still latched at the back of Dean’s neck, and in the stillness Dean can hear Castiel’s breath hitching.  He feels his shoulders shuddering.  Unsteady hands grip at Dean weakly, thumb tracing the knot of bone at the base of his neck. 

“Cas?”  Dean tempers his own touches, stills his fingers at the soft, trembling curve of Castiel’s back.  The skin is smooth and unmarred.

“I can’t,” Castiel says as he buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck.  His unusually deep voice is even lower now, breaking at the edges like it’s an effort to speak.   “I can’t, Dean.  I need you here.” 

Dean closes his eyes as Castiel begins to lay soft, wet kisses across his shoulder.  His breathing is shallow, almost painful as it drags through the hollow weight in his throat.  There are so many things he never says, so much caught at the edge of his lips.  He wracks his brain and finds nothing profound enough.  This has always been so many miles beyond him.

“Don’t ask me to do anything else,” Castiel near whispers against his jaw.  His nimble fingers dip below the belt of Dean’s jeans, round to the front to catch the button under the pad of his thumb.  Dean’s breath hitches and his heart aches in his chest at the touch.  A measured roll of want against need spills between them, caught very tangibly in the pit of Dean’s stomach, in the tips of Castiel’s fingers. 

“Please,” is all Dean has the strength to mutter.

It doesn’t take long for Castiel to pull them down, onto the weathered earth, onto the pebbles, and leaves, and dried out twigs.  The discomfort is worth it for the way they are able to pull into one another, chests once again heaving with shuddered breath.  Castiel latches his teeth just under the lobe of Dean’s ear, his tongue wetting the skin soothingly even as he threatens to tear Dean’s skin.  The burn is welcome as it travels through him to the base of his stomach.

“Need it,” Dean says as he grabs the front of Castiel’s pants, tugging the belt free, fingers catching at the metal zipper.  “I want you.”  Castiel meets Dean’s eyes, stormy blue nearly blown black with arousal.  He mirrors Dean’s actions without a breath of hesitation.  One hand works the button on Dean’s fly as the other reaches down between the heat of his legs, palming his balls through the fabric.  For a moment, Dean can’t even breathe.  His whole body shudders and unfolds, nearly ripping Castiel’s pants open and shoving his hand beneath the elastic band of his briefs.

“Dean,” Castiel mouths soundlessly.  It’s like a prayer, like faith beneath the weight of his hands.  It’s writhing and begging.

Dean closes a hand around Castiel’s cock and that beautiful mouth of his falls open, fucking into his hand even as he works to tug Dean’s pants down his legs.  Once they’re gone, Dean leans back against the tree, Castiel kneeling between his parted thighs.  Thumbnails rake over the pale freckles spattered across his reddened knees.  For a moment Castiel just stares, Dean working him, his wrist aching from the angle at which he grabs his thick cock beneath the constricting fabric of his briefs.  Dean is too enraptured with the small hitches of Castiel’s breath to care. 

Then he leans forward, all purpose and heat as Castiel catches his mouth, teeth knocking together against barely parted lips.  Dean wrenches his hands away from him to reach for his discarded jeans, finding his wallet, a small square packet of lube pulled from an outside pocket.  Castiel groans softly against his lips.  With trembling fingers he presses the packet against Castiel’s hand, still gripping at the soft skin of Dean’s thigh.

Without a word he takes it, pulling himself away from Dean’s swollen lips to tear it open between his teeth.  The visceral impatience in the action sends heat racing to pool at the pit of Dean’s stomach, his cock achingly hard.  Castiel smooths the lube between two fingers, making sure to coat them thoroughly while Dean reaches down to tug his boxers off, the uneven ground painful against his bare ass, but muted.  His mind is too clouded to register it properly.  He’s too focused on Castiel’s hand wrapping around the back of his neck, the other reaching between his legs.

He swears his vision goes white when Castiel pushes the first knuckle in, his cock hanging heavy and red and wanting between his legs.  Castiel presses kisses against his chest as he works him open, his breathing uneven as he tries to give it the attention it needs.  Dean wants to tell him not to worry so much because they did this yesterday and he’s not a god damn china doll, but instead he gasps Castiel’s full name as he works a second finger in, a practiced touch against his prostate.  It sends coils of heat and pleasure ratcheting through his body, sweat beading at his brow.

“Cas,” he pleads, hoping to god he gets his meaning because another jolt of pleasure leaves him speechless, mouth lolling open as Castiel catches his bottom lip between his own.

“Is it good?” Castiel says against his mouth, voice deep and playful even as he ruts forward, just as eager as Dean is.

“Fuck, fuck yeah.  Christ, Cas just fuck me already,” Dean gasps.  Castiel pulls his fingers out and Dean groans at the emptiness, canting his hips forward desperately.  Castiel reaches down and pulls himself free, jeans and briefs hardly pushed down below his ass.  His cock is wet and heavy, and thick, and he takes it in his hand and gives himself a few generous strokes before lining up.  Dean digs his nails into Castiel’s shoulders. 

“Please, Cas.  Want you.  I want you.” 

Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, his chest shaking as he pushes against the tight ring of muscle, slowly at first.  And then, with a quick jerk of his hips, he buries himself.  Dean cries out and presses his face against Castiel’s skin, tasting the hunt on him.  It burns, it always burns at first but it’s the best goddamn pain.  He takes it, makes himself feel all of it.  Wanting all of it.

Then he starts to move.

It’s slow at first, and all Dean can do through it is sit back and feel it.  Castiel takes his time, rocking in and out in shallow thrusts, teaching Dean’s body to relax, to enjoy it.  He runs the palm of his hands over Dean’s sides, sucks bruises against his collarbone.  Dean just gasps, his legs trembling, hands scrambling for purchase against Castiel’s heated skin.  As they gain speed Dean manages to forget Castiel’s injury, his grip tightening around the muscle as Castiel rasps out in pain, breathing labored.  Dean tenses and pulls back immediately, but Castiel just holds him closer, digs his nails against his spine, fucks into him without restraint.  Dean kisses apologies against his jaw.

“Sometimes I think…” Castiel says as he pushes in hard, lighting Dean’s body on fire with heady pleasure even as he strains to catch the words.  “The only thing I ever did right as an angel, the only thing I didn’t mess up, was finding you.” 

Dean’s heart constricts in his chest, and he holds onto Castiel like he could keep him there; forever, interlocked, just breath and voice and touch. 

“Your soul shone so bright.  It was like a beacon, guiding me,” Castiel continues, his voice thick with lust and something else.  Something Dean’s scared of losing.  “I could never… I couldn’t understand how such a tainted thing, something so broken down, shattered and warped by Hell itself could still be so desperately, achingly warm.”  Castiel’s movements are erratic, his breathing labored, and Dean can’t understand how he’s got the fucking brainpower to keep talking but he holds onto the words the same way he’s holding onto Castiel.

Castiel reaches between them to take Dean’s cock in his hand.   Dean cries at the sensation, his whole body shaking, overwhelmed, his mind blanking for seconds at a time while Castiel fucks into him.  Tearing him apart, from the inside out, in the best fucking way.

“It wasn’t my choice,” Castiel says, almost a sob though Dean knows it’s not.  Castiel doesn’t cry, not like that.  He cries quietly, internally.  It wrecks Dean every damn time.  “It wasn’t my decision to raise you, but hands, my hands,” he punctuates the words with teeth against his jaw, another blinding rush of pleasure at the base of his spine.  “Not these borrowed things but hands strung together with grace and fire and light, my very _being_ , they know you Dean Winchester, every inch of you for knitting you back together.”

“Cas,” Dean says, struggling, pleasure building in the base of his stomach.  He’s close, he’s so close, and fuck him, he wants Castiel to keep fucking talking but he’s also terrified.  He clings harder, buries his fingers in Castiel’s dark hair, wraps his legs around his hips. 

“I know every curve, every pale freckle, every scar.” Castiel slams into him with each piece of Dean, each confession dripping from his swollen lips.  “And yet, still.  I somehow know nothing.  I’m still learning, what makes you love so fiercely, make you laugh even when life is so bleak, so faithless.”  His movements are fevered, unchecked.  Dean cries out as he feels himself there, at the edge.  He’s waiting, waiting, waiting to topple over.  He wants it more than he’s wanted anything in his life.

“What makes you _writhe_.”

Castiel’s entire body shakes, fucking him deep, hard.

“What makes you _gasp_.”

Dean meets him, holds him tight enough to break him.

“What makes you _come_.”

Dean opens his mouth in a silent scream, breathing forgotten, spilling himself across his bare stomach.  His arms are latched around Castiel’s shoulders, and he fucks up into his hand, desperately chasing the dwindling pleasure.  It powers through him as Castiel keeps thrusting, keeps pushing forward before he’s there, too.  Before he’s shaking. 

Castiel gasps for air above Dean, filling him up, his face beautiful and flushed with a thin sheen of sweat making him glint in the low sunlight.  Dean clings to him, letting him work through the aftershocks, laying soft trembling kisses at the line of his hair.

On the floor of a dirty forest, Castiel curls up in Dean’s arms, knuckles brushing his hipbones, his stomach, and he breathes softly, reverently.  Desperately. 

“Don’t ask me to stop protecting you, because I will never, ever listen.”


End file.
